Poem for Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Pine View in June

I.

A woman walks her dog on the sidewalk that passes
in front of my porch. She is wearing cutoff denim shorts
and a black feathered hat that Victorian women likely
wore during periods of mourning. Try as I might, I cannot
recall how her dog looked.

II.

The children play softball and soccer in the little league
diamond behind my apartment. After a practice concludes,
the coach says to his team of Hispanic girls, "Let's not forget
the number one rule: you pick up the equipment, not us."

III.

In the same little league diamond, some drunken youth
shout from the dugout at night while I try to sleep. The
words of Naomi Shihab Nye come to mind: we were
all born like empty fields. What we are now shows
what has been planted.

IV.

In the pine outside my window, the songbirds pause
from their communication to swallow whatever is
clenched in their beaks. How similarly all creatures
live, I think, lifting my sandwich towards my mouth.

V.

A man is sealing up cracks in the weathered asphalt.
They are unpredictable in depth, in length, in pattern.
He is outmatched, but he remains dogged, convinced
that he is solely responsible for saving us all from
melting in the earth's core.

Poem for Thursday, June 12, 2014

Esto Incluye a las Estrellas

On this evening, I turn to what I cannot
see or reach.

This includes the stars.
The longest veil of cloud has tangled itself
around their throats.

Being cosmic is so thankless, you said
another evening long ago:

           a glass of Cabernet in your crescent
           moon hand, eyes bluer than Neptune
           ice, remnants of another galaxy rolling
           off your tongue.

How could I believe you then, now, or
at any point in infinite time?